Face 2 Face
by Kawaii Kisu
Summary: "I just wanna ask ya'll... If you think you're a good person? And if you are, how would you know?"
1. Birth of a Man

**Inspired by **_**Koko Be Good**_** by Jen Wang**

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><p><strong>Dear Someone;<strong>

_Prologue_

There's a special place in the universe for people like me. They end up there because life's a bitch and likes to throw them curve balls. Not all the time, not every person, but it happens enough to make you wonder just what it is certain people are doing wrong and what they need to do to fix it. You can take your best swing at that pitch, but there's no guarantee that you won't strike out. And if you do strike out, then God pity you, because other people sure as hell won't give a flying fuck.

That's how I used to feel, in any case.

Just listen.

Imagine this: you've never met them before, never heard of them and probably never would have if Fate hadn't intervened. Had they been born in your lifetime or had they crossed your path at some point, I'm sure they would have held you in their arms and whispered sweet nothings in your ear. Imagine someone so perfect in all their imperfections that is an exact match to your fragile yet stubborn personality—someone who compliments your very being so well that it's impossible to imagine the two of you without each other. Imagine that person, ideal in not only appearance, but in heart and spirit as well. Imagine you love them, have always loved them and always will, but you've never met.

You fall in love with someone you've never met—and never will meet.

It starts with a voice. For me, it started with his song. That song led to a journey through the life of someone so troubled, so pained, yet so full of life and colorful, so like and unlike me that it made no sense; it still makes no sense. But it felt right.

I'm not rambling; I'm speaking my heart.

Just listen.

Imagine yourself in my shoes. Imagine your whole way of thinking inverted and then crumpled in on itself. Imagine the intensity of a feeling you shouldn't have and don't understand. Can you see it? Can you feel it?

Are you hearing what I'm saying?

That's the backdrop. It's just a glimpse, but there's so much more. It's that journey, that someone's journey, that I'm writing about now. And by writing about him, I can explore _me_. No moment spared, no incident unimportant. So sit back and journey with me. Take everything in and, maybe, learn from it.

Please, just listen.

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><p><strong>Reality;<strong>

_Age 13_

_When the door closes, the world is cut off._

_He puts on some classical music at a dull volume, dims the lights, and closes the blinds. Then he locks the door. His voice, with a low and drawn out tone to it, gently says to relax. I can only sit at the foot of the bed and wait until he's ready. Always when he's ready, never a moment before._

_I don't speak. I don't move._

_I close my eyes and conjure up an image of the world outside, kept away from me by nothing more than a wooden barrier and a growing lump of fear snaking its way through my chest. I think of that world, a softer and quieter place filled with the whispers of loved ones. Or loved one. I think of my latest homework assignment, left soda-stained and abandoned on my desk. I think of the last game I snagged a chance to play, of Old Lady Lockhart and her pretty granddaughter down our street. I think of the shrill orchestra of crickets and the rest of Night's creatures sounding in unison outside. I think of anything else that takes me away._

_So long as it takes me away._

_Then he's ready._

_I open my eyes to peer into piercing gold ones. He stands tall and bare from the waist up, nothing but glistening amber skin and finely sculpted muscle. Silver hair drapes over his shoulders in small, bundled spikes. He's wearing the same lazy grin as before, perhaps with more playfulness than I'm used to with him. He touches my face, lightly running thick fingers along my cheeks. Then he cups them in his palms and tilts my head upwards. Those eyes are lit with amusement, and again he tells me to relax before whispering my name. It rolls like a prayer, a blessing, off his tongue._

"_Roxas."_

_I don't say anything back. Not that he's looking for a verbal response. Those fingers are hot against my skin. The smile broadens. "Come now, we've done this before. You know what I want, Roxas."_

_I give a hard swallow then nod. He laughs._

"_And what do I want?"_

_I think back on the last time I'd snuck out for him, the last time I was kept in this room. The last time he touched me. It's something I still can't wrap my mind around, but I ignore it for now and give him his answer. He likes to draw it out as long as possible, make it a game, so I take my sweet time undoing his zipper, rolling down the jeans and underwear, touching and licking and…_

"_Good boy."_

_I'm like a pet to him, but I don't know if that's more disturbing than the way his narrowed eyes glaze over. His gaze burns, hurts. At some point his fingers find their way into my hair, gripping the locks more tightly with every second drawing him closer to release. Like the last time, he's silent through most of it, save for the occasional mutter now and then._

_Only when he's closer, only when he fists my hair and tugs my face forward, does he break the pattern; his voice gruff, animalistic. "More. Open."_

_I try not to gag on the fullness of him, try but fail, overwhelmed by the throbbing force against the back of my throat. He tastes of salt, sweat and the musky scent and flavor of his cologne. My eyes water. My fists bunch up against his waist, pushing away, but he just holds me there and keeps thrusting himself forward. I choke._

"_Through your nose," he growls. But I can't fucking breathe. I'm pounding on his hips, and only when tears start slipping from my eyes does he pull out and allow me that breath._

_He waits a beat, watches me twist away with gasps and harsh coughs, then he calmly tells me to open my mouth wider and suck._

_He shoves it back in._

_We follow this pattern until it's not so painful, until every inch of his arousal tastes familiar, until I can suck in oxygen through my nose instead of fighting back the urge to vomit. Eventually getting it in deeper is easier. It's enjoyable, dare I say, when he stops man handling me and lets me blow him on my own terms. I close my eyes once I get into the rhythm of things, letting out the appropriate moans and slippery smacks of lip against heated flesh here and there._

_He sounds pleased, but not once do I look at him to be sure. I keep my eyes closed during the entire thing._

_For when he dumps his load square in my mouth, on my face, with a groan._

_For when he returns the favor with more passion and tenderness than I think is possible from him._

_For when he's pressing me firmly into his sheets, sweaty skin brushing against and sticking with mine._

_For when he takes me again and again and again, until I can't hold back my cries of pleasure out of spite anymore._

_He works my body raw, hands always roaming, sultry kisses always being laid on my chest and naval and forehead. Soft calls, simple words. "Yes, yes. That's it, Rox…"_

_If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's whispering love in my ears._

_But I do know better._

_He fucks me until he's spent, until my voice is left hoarse and we're both panting. The bed shifts when he collapses by my side, when he curls into me with a hand on my cheek. Only the thumb moves against it, a blazing reminder of moments before._

"_Roxas."_

_I don't open my eyes._

_Somehow I know he's smiling at me—no, smirking if nothing else. Nothing else is said or done; we just lay there. My mind wanders. To the cricket song sounding outside. To Old Lady Lockhart and her pretty granddaughter down our street. To the video game beckoning me to come play. To my abandoned homework. To my family, sleeping away just as unaware as ever. To the world outside, beyond that door._

_I open my eyes._

_He doesn't fuss or do anything when I slip away from his hand. He lets me use his shower in peace. Only his cat-like stare speaks to me when I come back to the room to dress, raking through me. His body is splayed out on the bed like a bronze Adonis, unmoving. That damned smile never leaves his mouth._

_When I'm clean and dressed, I stand before him and stare expectantly until he lets out an amused huff. "Alright."_

_The man moves, reaches for something on his nightstand. A wallet. He pulls out two fifties, still crisp, and folds them carefully in my outstretched hand. "Because you asked so nicely. And remember —"_

"_Our little secret." I hardly recognize my own voice after so many hours of abuse, but it still holds the hard edge I've made habitual. "Got it."_

_That smile. Those eyes. They crinkle and narrow once more._

"_Good boy."_

"_Whatever."_

_I leave._

* * *

><p><strong>We All Start Somewhere;<strong>

_Age 23_

His name was Xemnas.

Or, perhaps, I should say is? The last time I saw that face, spoke to that man, was close to a decade ago. Where he is now and what he's doing with his life doesn't concern me. All I know is that every detail of his body has been etched into my mind ever since. Every alluring dip of muscle in smooth skin. The feline quality of his eyes, how their amber gaze would darken with each aroused thought or utterance. The obsessive way he fashioned his hair, every silver strand in place around his chiseled face. His limbs were long, his build seemed slender in spite of all his muscle and bulk, and his teeth could make pearls weep with envy. His smile, which he always reserved for me during our more intimate encounters, exuded excited confidence and sexiness. Everything about him was, and probably still is, painfully attractive.

He was a dangerous being. I soon found I didn't mind all that much.

The first time I met him was when I was thirteen. It was on a Tuesday in the sweltering month of August, in our small town neighborhood of Glesdale. It was a summer filled with hunched, sun burnt bodies sticky with sweat and shuffling along the pavement. It was a summer where my sister and I were tasked with cleaning our small daisy yellow abode wedged in the beginnings of forest. She offered to handle the inside if I covered everything outside. The yards, front and back, the gutters and windows and grime caked onto the paneling. Particularly, though, the stable.

It was a ratty old thing. We didn't have a horse, just rabbits, but somehow they managed to make the sickest of messes. Fortunately, our father had hired a gardener who had been willing to help me clean out the cages.

Oddly, that gardener had been Xemnas.

I tell you now; I probably knew on some subconscious level exactly what he was. Maybe not right away; maybe I hadn't known the exact word for a guy like him but I realized soon enough. Long before he ever pushed me aside for getting older, for getting much "too old" for him.

At first, we'd just gathered the rabbits in their cages and set them outside the stable, getting ready to clean out the whole thing. Strictly business. I had tried to pretend that he wasn't there, shooting me those curious looks every few minutes, and focused on eliminating the stale stench that pervaded through the air. He hadn't tried to start up some trivial conversation. Eventually I got a good look at the man, form fitting tank top and ripped jeans and all, examining the almost fluid movements he made as he tossed old hay into a garbage bag.

I remember having a hard time tearing my eyes away from his biceps. (Maybe he was the start of that little fetish, too.) I remember trying to make out the strange word tattooed along his shoulder before giving up and stealing away inside the house for a short break. I remember my sister nagging at me when she found me in the kitchen, fussing at me to at least bring the man some damn ice cream if I was gonna let him do all the work. A popsicle for him, and one for myself.

Those golden eyes flashed seductively when I offered it to him. Something about the look he'd given me had sent an electric jolt through my spine, made me stare back at him with just as much intensity as I leaned against the stable wall and started munching on my ice cream. The two of us had eaten slowly in silence before I spoke to him for the first time.

"What's your tattoo say?"

He'd barely glanced at his arm, still watching me. "It's Armenian. Says _Trust_."

"Trust who?"

A shrug.

"You're Armenian?" I'd asked after he settled back into quiet.

He'd smacked his lips against his popsicle, grinning slightly. "On my mother's side."

"You don't look it."

"I get that a lot." It was here that he paused, letting his popsicle slide from his lips an umpteenth time. Then his already low voice grew lower, holding a hint of amusement. "Funny, you don't look much like your father, either."

My scowl had been poorly hidden. I took another chomp of ice cream, ignoring the screaming coldness on my teeth. "So I've been told."

He'd merely chuckled, said he'd seen it all before. Said he wasn't surprised, as it was common with many of the ritzy, frou-frou rich folk that hired him to tend their gardens.

"Children that don't look like their parents?" I'd asked.

He finished his popsicle with a shake of the head. "Children with unfaithful parents."

And what had he known? (Apparently enough.)

Why the conversation had turned in that direction, I still don't know. Perhaps it was his reason for eyeing me so intently earlier, as if trying to figure out if I was truly my father's son. Why he'd made it his business, I still don't mind or know. Why we went on talking about our parents' life decisions and their love affairs, I'm still not sure.

All I know is that moment had been our ice breaker, and Xemnas had been very interested in my life. I remember, after some more time spent talking and cleaning, he claimed I seemed extremely mature for my age. I remember telling him age was just a number, that it didn't matter.

I recall his breath, fierce in my ear, when he leaned in and playfully whispered, "Age _certainly_ doesn't matter to me."

The next thing I knew, I had a mesh of sea-salt popsicle slush and his probing tongue in my mouth. Out in the burning August heat, with the rabbits shifting restlessly in their cages, my left over popsicle dripping in my hand, and the possibility of my sister or father coming outside and seeing us—I let that strange man kiss me. Touch me. Fondle. Suck.

I'm telling you all of this not because I have some sad fixation or regret of that event. No, but because I look back to that moment with mixed emotions and think: "That's where it started." I know what we did, what he eventually talked me into, was wrong. I know I should have said something to someone—but at the time, it felt good. I don't see our relationship as something to be ashamed of, but in fact as some form of love. Perhaps I didn't love him, and I'm sure he didn't love me.

But I loved the thrill he brought to my otherwise dull, small town life.

By the end of that day we'd exchanged numbers. He came to our house every two weeks to tend to the long stretch of yard behind our house. Often times I helped, though my father assured me it wasn't necessary. Often times we'd hide away in that stable and do the unspeakable. Later, during the start of my freshman year in high school, he convinced me to sneak out at night and trek to his home. (It wasn't that far from ours, I found.) It wasn't every night, but often enough for our fix, for a routine to be formed.

Xemnas was the first of many men that I fucked and the first to pay me for it. The first I played around with regularly while the rest of the world was oblivious. I'm sure if my father had paid enough attention, he would've fired the man. I'm sure, if my sister had found out, she would've cried. It was only later, long after Xemnas, that anyone got upset.

I tell you all of this because he was the beginning of it all: the late nights, the wild streak, the steady flow of cash and sexual favors. The _attitude_ I developed because I fucking _loved_ it and damn if I was gonna stop. That man was the start, even though our "relationship" lasted but a year, and I'd be lying if I told you I don't still think of him from time to time. I can't bring myself to hate him for planting that initial seed of corruption.

I can only blame myself for what it brought next.

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><p><strong>AN:** So, I'm trying something different again, and all I can really tell you is that I need this story. I can't really tell you why, just that it's been waiting to be written for a while. It'll probably be slow, but it will get finished. Consider this a prologue of sorts.

Also, I gotta give a shout out to my girl Rain (0Through1the1Glass0) for being my new beta and putting up with me. Thanks again, boo!


	2. Fall of a Man

_I'm sorry, but this gets graphic._

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><p><strong>It;<strong>

_Age 23_

I tend not to talk about It. There's still something so painfully disgusting and humiliating about talking about something like It out loud; even more so with people who know you. No one likes to hear about those types of things. No one wants to imagine that side of you, so open and vulnerable and —

God, I hate that word. _Vulnerable._ Everything about it is just — It's a mouthful. It's annoying. It's very connotations bring up images of myself that I'd rather not see. Stressed. Broken. Pitiful. Weak.

I refuse to be weak.

So I don't talk about It. I don't want to, I don't _like _to and I hate when people try to make me. I hate hearing about It, whether it's through a serious talk or a twisted joke. (They dare _joke_?) I hate It.

But It _did_ happen, whether I like It or not. That's the thing about It: anyone who's ever been through It, and I pray you haven't and never will, can agree with me. It doesn't go away just because you want It to. You can't pretend It didn't happen, you can't ignore how It eats away at you slowly, from the inside out. It's a monster that takes its gnarly claws and picks, picks, picks away at the fleshy chunks of you until you're nothing but a sad, pitiful, gasping — _**vulnerable **_— lump of mess that has nothing left to hold onto. It follows you. And even if you face It, try to handle It, and learn to pack It away, It never truly leaves. It'll rock you from the very core. It'll try to own you.

I don't like talking about It.

But here's how It went down.

* * *

><p><strong>Contact;<strong>

_Age 21_

There came times where I desperately wished (maybe) my Fridays could have been filled with something other than endless nights of sipping gin from strangers' glasses, grinding against scantily clad bodies, and hopping from corner to dusty street corner in search for young souls in want of a good time. (For the right price, of course.) I had a routine. Find a bar, someplace cozy, settle in and down a few drinks. I'd bum a smoke from my nightly partner in crime, light up right at the bar, and shoot flirty glances at any woman or man looking my way. The smoke would rise high in the air and dangle there lazily, periodically punctured by flashing neon lights, creating a hazy background through which bodies swayed and danced without conviction. A very typical boring night, really. That's how it started.

As usual, I was relaxed, almost stuck in a trance. I could feel whatever toxic concoction the bartender had mixed together start to eat away at my nerves, my inhibitions. I wasn't too far gone — never let myself be — but buzzed enough for a darkish fuzz to cloud around the edges of my mind and vision. My friend was only slightly worse off, prattling away false compliments and heavy come-ons at whoever was within ear shot. (When Hayner got drunk, he tended to get mouthy. In more ways than one.)

That night, he'd taken to pointing out possible clients scattered about the bar. Older men, mostly. Leaning back on his stool, elbows propped against the counter and a drink in one hand, he aimed a finger at once such man seated across the room. "What 'bout that one?"

I gave the man a once over and blew out the puff of smoke with a shudder. My voice was louder than necessary, what with the music turned down low. "_Fuck_, no."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's _greasy_ lookin'." Maybe not greasy. He was more of a scrawny, suit clad, worn out mess of rattiness, sandy hair pulled back in a high ponytail and this hungry sneer spread on his thin lips. Cool eyes were undressing some curvaceous woman seated across from him at the rounded table. She was a handsome woman, too, with strong angles in her face and disgust hiding behind her taut smile. Poor guy couldn't take the hint that she was _not_ impressed.

I couldn't help but laugh at how eagerly he leaned towards her and how she leaned back, shaking my head. "I wouldn't let his grubby little meat pole come within ten yards of all of this."

Hayner snorted. "'Cause you're so fabulous."

"Babe, I thought you know'd it."

"What about him?"

"The bald guy?"

"Cute, right? Or maybe that tall one over there?"

"Maybe."

"God, you're picky." Hazel colored eyes squinted as their owner snatched my cig and took a hit before passing it back. He followed it up with a shot from his glass, waving his free hand in the air with a flourish. "You pick, then."

Like he had to tell me twice.

We'd gone through the entire room, sorting out our prospects based on attractiveness and the likelihood that they'd be agreeable. Not that we wouldn't try to coax some poor sap into playing along, but it helped if they seemed even slightly interest. From women who were mostly too loose (according to Hayner) or not single (like I actually gave a damn) to men way too "old" (Hayner) or not old enough (me). This or that looked cheap, he or she came off as groudy; they had to be a virgin. Was that a cop? No. Maybe? No… Don't risk it.

We played that game for a little while longer before deciding we'd have to search elsewhere for some business, specifically when we had what we assumed was a cop shooting us not-quite curious glances every few minutes. And if we didn't find anything, then at least we could get completely plastered and call it a night. Hayner had all but dragged me out with him, a beer can clutched tightly in one hand and his other settled cozily on my ass as we strolled down the darkened streets in a drunken, chuckling fit. Maybe the not-so-curious cop followed us — I have to admit, at twenty-one we both looked pretty damn young for our age — and maybe some other curious soul had caught a glimpse of the two of us and followed as well. I couldn't be sure which of the two had led Him to us. (Maybe it had all been coincidence? No…)

All I know is, after we wandered for a bit and landed ourselves at some gas station, He showed up as if He'd been waiting for us to make some kind of pit stop from the very start.

The air stank, like someone's cat had crawled into the station with them and took a giant piss everywhere. The floor tiles were stained the right color for it. There was some Hispanic man propped back in his chair behind the checkout counter, his frumpy face scrunched into even more frumpiness as he scanned the pages of some foreign newspaper held before him. When we caught sight of him we burst out laughing, and the only acknowledgement he'd given us when we stumbled in was a sharp "Shht!"

I'd grabbed Hayner and yanked him behind one of the snack aisles, still trying to choke back laughter. "H-hi-his face!"

He'd contorted his freckled face and pursed out his lips, voice suddenly deep. "_Me gusta._"

"Oh God!" My stomach hurt, I was laughing so hard. We were given another loud "Shht!" from the counter when I slipped and fell onto the floor, clutching at my sides. Hay couldn't hold it back either, but at least he seemed more composed than me. He gripped my arms and attempted to hoist me up but failed.

That's when _He_ sauntered up.

I wouldn't say the man had walked straight towards us and just blatantly stared or anything — no, that would've been too creepy. He had sort of gravitated from the aisle behind us to ours, though, hovering around the end and pretending to examine the pretzels. I say 'pretending' because, even though he tried to hide it, I could see that look in his eyes whenever he snuck a peak at us.

It was the look Xemnas got when he'd first met me.

I was still laughing, but that excited jolt shot through me again for the first time in years.

He was a big guy, bulky but not fat. Angular, strong jaw, sharp nose, pointed ears out on display with three silver studs a piece. A multitude of tattoos running down his arms, the most distinct one being an intricately drawn Roman numeral three right on his shoulder. (And damn, those biceps again!) They were dominant features I'd come to love. Thick, thick—and I'm talking fat finger thick—dreads of dark hair was tied back high, falling this way and that over his broad shoulders. There were massive side burns that seemed almost apish, but added more…more _something_ to that fierce face. And his eyes.

I always remembered the eyes.

I remember thinking that shade of purple shouldn't have been possible—not for eyes—but they soon matched my gaze so firmly and intently that all thoughts left me and all I could do was stare back. Hayner had finally pulled me back to my feet, following my gaze and examining the man with some mix of curiosity and discontent.

All hints of amusement quickly disappeared, and I found myself pulling away from Hayner's grasp and easing beside that stranger. Picking up a bag of pretzels, he regarded me with even more interest. "Having fun?"

"You're more than welcome to join."

"I'm flattered." He picked up on the playful way I stretched out the words and the faint grin gracing my lips, grinning himself. "But I don't think your friend is too happy with the idea."

He'd given a nod behind me, causing me to glance back. And indeed, Hayner looked none too pleased for whatever reason, walking up to wrap his arms around my waist and lean into me with something close to possessiveness. He whispered, "C'mon, Rox, ditch the flake."

"That's 'cause," I'd continued to the man, ignoring Hayner's plea completely, "he doesn't know a good time when he sees one."

"And you can guarantee me a good time?"

"Depends how much you're willing to pay."

_So you're one of those,_ his eyes seemed to say. And there was something else in those eyes, in that smile of his that I didn't think to find strange. Rather, I didn't _want_ to find it strange. Because that damn jolt was running through my body again — some itch, a need, to just wrap this man around my little finger like I had with so many others before. And if not that, then the desire to let him work me dry and ragged for however long he wanted. And for what? A couple hundred bucks?

I didn't think.

The man smiled down at me, something strangely pleasant on his face. "I'm sure we can work something out."

At that point Hayner, surprisingly sober in the moment, had decided he'd had enough and lightly punched my shoulder. "I'll catch you later." Then he was brushing past the two of us, shooting an uneasy sideways glance at the strange man in front of me.

I blew a raspberry at him. "Killjoy."

"Whore," he called back.

"Takes one to know."

The blonde had just flipped me the bird before pushing through the door. He was given one last "tsk" of annoyance from Señor Me Gusta, but afterwards silence spread itself thick in the air.

"So…" I turned my attention back to Him, eyes eager and heart thumping out of time with each word coming out my mouth. "How're we doing this, big guy?"

Those sharp, jewel toned eyes raked over me, up and down, and I swear I saw the man lick his lips ever so slightly. I would've assumed that I'd imagined it, if that tone of his hadn't been so downright seductive. "Let's go for a little ride first, _mein schatz_."

* * *

><p><strong>Pushing Limits;<strong>

_Age 21_

That was the first night.

I'd learned over the course of the years that you saved a lot of grief by getting the money up front and laying all of your cards out on the table immediately. It made things a hell of a lot easier when you weren't sure about the client. Not that I had to deal with many people trying to cheat me out of my money; working nights with Hayner often prevented that. He got violent when someone tried to pull a fast one over him, and he didn't come cheap. (No pun intended.) But…you could never be too sure.

With this man, I had spelled everything out during that little car ride. Pricing. What, exactly, it was he wanted, what I'd allow, safe words. Something about him, though, that edgy aura he carried even when doing something as simple as sitting or steering his beat down truck — and I could tell by now that is was just something else about him, how he was — attracted me.

"I like to play rough," the man had told me at one point, voice gruff.

"Well you're gonna have to save that for another time, big guy."

He'd only smiled.

Twenty minutes later we cruised through his neighborhood. It was a quiet place, too quiet for comfort if you really thought about it, with rusty cars sandwiched between each other along the curbs and a hazy fog lingering in the air. The stink of leftover barbeque and fertilizer — and did I smell pot? — was strong in the air, but I ignored it while climbing out the passenger's seat and simply followed the man.

His place seemed comfortable enough. It was such a contrast to the nitty gritty gray outside, complete with nice blends of dark reds and beige and cream. He'd left the kitchen lights turned on low during his late night trip, allowing a dim glow to greet us on the way inside. There was a stretch of bookshelf built into the wall by the entrance, leading up to the entertainment center, a slight mess on the coffee table; some jumbled items and stacks of paper here or there in the spaces that followed. There was door leading down to a basement turned bedroom. The whole thing had been given me a 70's vibe. Even had a lava lamp, curved in some unnamed form, resting on his nightstand. The whole place felt lived in. It was clear he kept to himself. Mostly.

He tossed me straight on the bed and all but ordered me to get on with it. He yanked on my hair and he smacked me around a bit, and I let him because he never got too out of bounds. Not that first night.

The second night he'd wanted me to bring my pouty friend along for the ride. Hayner, begrudgingly, agreed when I told him the price the man was willing to pay.

The third night he had friends over. We let them watch.

In the following nights, we let them get a taste themselves.

Every time after that was filled with cheap alcohol and pill upon pill, usually little pink gems, which ensured that our wild nights were even wilder. He got the stuff easy, considering he dealt it. It explained the ragtag friends, the touchy feely types with scars too many and hard edges just like his. It explained the hushed talks they had whenever their _merchandise _was laid out on the table for them to split and share. I remember the first time he offered me one, not long after he'd downed one himself in a gulp.

"What is it?" I'd asked.

"Heaven," was his only response. Then he slipped it on my tongue and told me to swallow. Heaven was an understatement. All barriers were broken down and we lifted ourselves to heights I hadn't known existed. We fucked like there was no tomorrow, sometimes with his friends watching, most others alone in his room. And no matter how rough he got I found I didn't mind that much, never during. I was too strung up for that. Each time, he pushed a little further. Spanking, yanking hair, biting. Eventually it turned to pinning me down, restraints, smacking me around…

What I'm getting at here is that I fell into a routine with this guy, sometimes teaming up with Hayner but more often than not on my own. All the drifting from place to place — at the time, I'd been crashing at one of Hayner's boys' every night — had grinded to a sharp halt when Xaldin offered me a space for the night. Just for that night, since I never stayed too long. That night he'd pushed me too far. At one point he choked me. I spat in his face after he pulled that, and he shot up from the bed quick with a disgusted sound to wipe it away.

"Look, asshole," I rasped out angrily, rubbing my throat gingerly, "I'm telling you once and once only that you've gotta scale it back."

"Or else what, you little twat?"

"I'm tired of all the rough play, you got me?" I was slipping from the bed, buttoning my shirt.

"You weren't complaining last time."

_That's 'cause I was hopped up on drugs last time_, I had wanted to say. _Because I didn't have my head on straight, and a buck's a buck._

But, really, because I saw too many small glimpses of Xemnas in him than I cared to admit. Especially nowadays. Too many memories. Too much routine; and when something became routine, my first instinct was to cut it out of my life and move on to bigger, better things if I could help it.

The man had gripped my arm much too quickly for me to just leave. Whatever cool demeanor he usually kept up with had steadily faded. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the hit he took not that long ago; I wasn't sure, but he looked downright pissed by my sudden change in attitude. "_You _offered your services to _me_, you little slut, and if you can't perform then we're gonna have problems."

"I have no problem _performing_, if you calm it the fuck down."

"You're too sensitive," he grumbled, forcing me back onto the bed. He plopped down on top of me before I could get back up, undoing my shirt, letting his tongue trail against my neck. Any other time I would have welcomed it, but he was too shaky, too _raw_ for me to handle without something to calm me down. The thought to ask for a little pick me up crossed my mind, but I let it slide instead. I tried pushing him away.

"Sober up and then we can talk." He wouldn't let up. "I said stop."

"We've only just begun," he muttered against my neck, gripping it yet again. I had to pry my fingers underneath his to keep him from gripping too hard.

"You're too fucking rough. Stop— _Get off_."

"AUGH, FU… You little—"

I was already up and running by then. A knee to the groin was all it took to stop him, just momentarily, but it was all I needed to worm my way free and head for the exit. He'd gotten up and swiped at me, though, making to block the door. I changed course for the bathroom, the next best thing.

"C'mere." He all but growled it, angry at how quickly I'd darted in the opposite direction.

I slammed and locked the door.

"Christ. Shit." The words came out as fast high pitched whispers, stumbling out one right after the other. I turned around and let my back sag a bit against the door, if only for a couple of seconds. I took that time to flick my eyes this way and that around the bathroom. "Shit, shit…"

There was a heavy _thump_ from behind, jolting me out of place and across the room. Another thump, and my feet were bumping into the clutter of CDs and magazines and other shit he didn't have the decency to put where they belonged. I'd banged my knee against the edge of his bathtub and knocked over something sitting on its edge in the process, but I didn't pay it any mind. I was too focused on getting out of that room because his banging was getting louder and louder with each second.

The window.

It was just above the toilet, a small thing but not too small for me to squeeze through. A latch to lock affair with white metal. I immediately hopped up and tried to pry the thing open.

"Shit," I whispered again, near hysterics this time. The thing was locked tight, just barely budging, but I kept at it until the latch loosened. Just a bit more was all I needed, just a little bit. "Come on, come _on_."

I got it open just as he burst through the door. I was surprised the thing managed to hang onto its hinges. He let out what sounded like a howl the moment he saw me climbing into the snug opening, charging at me. A few more seconds, that's all I'd needed. I could see his yard, the street just up ahead, not far. I could smell the burnt meat and fertilizer could feel the stale scent filling my lungs as I hoisted half my body outside with a harsh grunt. I could have made it.

He snatched onto my ankle instead.

"NO!" I practically shrieked it, kicking at him, but he just dragged me back inside and slammed the window shut. "No, lemme — gmm."

"You little _slut_," he seethed, gripping my hair and slapping a hand over my mouth. "You little fucking _slut_, you're really trying to run? Huh?"

Before I could stop him, he slammed my head against the wall. For a sickening second, everything went stark white, then pain exploded in colored swirls in front of my eyes. I couldn't even suck in a breath, it caught me so off guard. I saw a blur of red beside the sink when he threw me down, stuck his foot in my stomach. A groan left my lips before I could help it. He'd merely watched me clutch at my gut and roll over.

"I'm not playing around anymore." I tried to grit it out, but it came out as more of a pathetic whimper.

This just made him bark out a laugh. "Neither am I."

Then he knelt down and pried my legs apart.

I can't begin to explain to you just how much fear and raw panic that instilled in my heart.

As he yanked off my underwear, all that remained, and threw them across the room, I hoped and prayed that it wouldn't be that bad going in. Maybe he'd be done quickly. Maybe he'd make it quick. Maybe, if I stopped fighting, he'd be gentler about it. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, maybe, maybe—

And it hurt going in.

It hurt.

It hurt.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurts, it hurts, ithurts, ithurts, ithurts, ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts—

It hurt (_hurts, please, no_) and I started breaking. He just started ramming in with reckless abandon, with this absolutely demonic look in his eyes and this sneer on his lips. There was a gut wrenching kind of heat ripping at my entrance, forcing everything open enough for his dick to squeeze in; it was the kind of pain that shouldn't have been that bad once you got accustomed to it. But it _didn't. Go. Away._ It was eating me up, burning and burning, just heat and sweat — his disgusting sweat — and I couldn't run anymore.

I screamed. Somehow it didn't matter. Paint should've jumped off the walls, glass should've splintered and chipped away at our skin, or someone should've burst into the room to see what the fuck was going on — but no. It didn't matter.

_It hurts._

I screamed again, because I wanted someone to help me. I could take care of myself in most cases, but I needed someone to… I screamed again, because this was different. It felt different when you worked up to it, when you were _ready_ for it, but this—this was a pain I'd never felt before. This was death. Not in the usual sense, but death all the same. A murder. I'd say innocence was the victim, if I'd had any to begin with.

_It hurts, I'm dying._

I screamed again, and that just pissed him off. He punched me. I kept screaming, ignoring the trickle of blood running down my nose and the ringing in my ears and the swelling pain in my cheek, and this time he bent his arm and wedged it tightly against my throat. It was thick, hairs bristling against my skin, and at that point all I could do was choke out, "No, no, n—ah, _ple-please_!" over and over again.

I think, somewhere in that blurred mix of grunts and groans and tearful gasps, he might have put his lips on mine. I'm half certain there was breath, hot and foul, lapping at the curves of my neck and shoulder. I had watched those purple orbs burn into mine with such an animosity I'd never seen before, and then clamped my eyes shut and just shut up completely.

I don't know how long it went on for — it would've felt like a lifetime regardless. That's how it goes. You lose track of time, focused on nothing but that pain, wondering why it had to come to this situation in the first place or if it could have been avoided. I _knew_ it could have been avoided. I _knew_ it could have turned into something like this — but, at the same time, it still surprised me when it did. 'Cause he didn't get like this. He never got like this. It wasn't like I wasn't willing every other time. That's what always gets me. Maybe he just decided to snap one day.

Who knows?

It went on. When it goes on, it's human nature to take yourself somewhere else, anywhere else, after a certain point. You shut down. You don't feel it anymore. You're there but you're not at the same time, just hanging around on the hazy edges, thinking about other things that aren't related to what's going on in any way, shape, or form. I was floating like that for who knows how long before he flipped me over. My fingers slapped against the bathroom tile. They hit something. Some object I'd knocked over from the bathtub earlier. A cassette recorder, sleek, silver, and cool against my flushed skin. Somehow I'd hit the play button. Music came out. It was sharp, sultry; a quick beat, almost frantic, and loud. Then, on that tape, a man started singing.

It started with his voice.

He sang about some broken world, some broken people, taking those pieces and setting them aflame. Some twisted reality where all your expectations get trashed as well. Something hurt, something wounded—and yet it was beautiful. There was sass in his tone and a "Don't give a damn" attitude to the lyrics, the music. I focused on those words.

_Light that shit up and watch it burn._

_Ain't no room for 'em here, when they gonna learn?_

Burn, burn, burn.

I felt myself gasp before numbness took over and my vision faded. Only the lyrics stuck.

* * *

><p><strong>Falling Pieces;<strong>

_Age 21_

"…_the hell…id you…ing bleeding..."_

"…_mp him…"_

"_No."_

"I don't…him here."

"I'm not going to keep cleaning up your messes, Xaldin."

Their voices sounded far away. The second one took me a while to recognize. Lux…something. A friend of his. I drifted back out again, just briefly, before being snapped into full consciousness by the sharp tug on my arm.

Xaldin was pulling me up. His flesh felt like a hot iron being pressed against mine, and I let out a choked whine. I heard a rustling from outside the bathroom and glanced over. Luxord, that's was it was, holding my backpack. Shoving stuff inside, my things. I didn't get to watch him for long because I was yanked into the bathtub. Hot water was turned on and sprayed in my face, pouring down every inch of me. I still shivered. It dawned on me halfway through that he was washing himself off of me.

At that point I didn't care.

He tossed me a towel to dry with when he'd finished, pulling me back into the bedroom where his blonde friend waited with my bag. He threw my pants and some sweatshirt at me and watched me get dressed; quietly telling me that breathing a single word to anyone would prove useless. I couldn't manage any kind of reply, just flinched when he got up close and tucked some money into my pocket. He held me there, so close to him, with that fat finger in my pocket. Everything I had once found attractive about him was painful to look at. Then he whispered, "And don't you dare come back, unless you're up for round two."

The moment he unhooked his fingers, the moment he shoved my belongings in my arms, he led me out the front door and pushed me onto the street. Only when I slung my bag over my shoulder and started walking with a limp in my step did he slam the door shut behind me.

I ended up wandering that night in a haze. Everything was darkened 'round the edges, fuzzy. I didn't pay too much attention to anything, really. I had no idea, nor did I care, where I was going or where I went; I just walked. That time of night, there weren't many people hanging around to think anything of it.

"Hey." A voice. I didn't know whose, but it came up close on my left. I kept going, ignoring the feeling of his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't touch me."

"You don't look so hot," the voice said. He tried to stop me again, caught my shoulder. It felt like he was burning me alive with his fingers.

"Don't."

"But you're hurt—"

And I whipped around before I could even stop myself, yelling and throwing punches at the guy because he was too damn _close_, too damn close for comfort, and all I could pick out was a flash of silver and green. Wide green, a shocked green, staring down at me. I must have clipped him in the jaw, because I felt and heard a harsh thwack against my fists. I screamed. "I said _don't_. _Don't _— JUST DON'T, DON'T. DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

"Okay! Okay, okay." The voice backed away, just a bit. I still wouldn't look, not fully, still stuck in that haze and dizziness. I backed away, stumbled but didn't fall, and found myself hugging my stomach. Somehow that voice managed to remain calm. "Look. Not touching."

I did look then, blinking back the wetness in my eyes. A sharp face, sharp eyes, nearly curtained by silver hair. An expression of concern. Pity. I didn't want his fucking pity, just…

"You're bleeding," he said quietly, gesturing to my forehead. It wasn't bleeding so much now, just a big bruise caked in red, throbbing slightly. A busted eye, cracked lips, that shooting pain and burning lingering in my thighs and opening…

But I didn't say anything.

"Look, I just wanna help, alright?" He pointed to the large structure, a parking garage I soon realized — just a minute's walk away. He was readjusting the bag on his shoulder. "My car's down there, second floor. Let me get you to a hospital. Will you let me?"

I know no amount of detail will ever be able to accurately capture just how hard those last four words hit me. I don't know what it was; maybe the innocent way he'd asked me, or the fact that he seemed so hell bent on getting me off the streets in the first place; I don't know. I just broke down crying and knelt low to the ground, hugging myself like the child. There were no words for what I was feeling. He seemed to sense that. He could just fucking see it, and I hated that. But his tone was gentle.

"Come on."

"N-no…"

"Just c'mon, okay. C'mon." I heard him pick up my fallen bag. Then he grabbed my hands this time, lightly pulling me up in spite of my quiet protests. "I got you."

He didn't let go the entire way there. All I could think about after that was that stranger's song.


	3. Flight of a Man

**Being Good;**

_Age 23_

What does it mean to be a good person? Think about yourself. Think about what makes you good. What does it take? What are or aren't you getting right?

Is it really all it's cracked up to be?

Just think about that. How would you know? It's like there's some universal truth to it; some people are good and some people aren't. A lot of people aren't. But then you've got the people stuck in between, the people who go through the day hoping to see the next, people who get by in whatever way is possible regardless of who approves. Sometimes there's just no other way. Sometimes, when you're at a limit, you have to do things to keep from toppling over and face planting into something much worse. Things you might not agree with. Things you don't want to think too much about. And that just sucks.

I guess I'm rationalizing. But, really, think about that. Does that necessarily make them bad people? Or just less good? Is it worth being a _good person_ when it doesn't come that easy to you, when so many others have you beat? Should you strive to be something you're not just because it seems right? Just because that's what everyone tells you is right?

Am I even making sense?

* * *

><p><strong>Aftermath;<strong>

_Age 21_

You can't help people who don't want to be helped.

Try if you want, but generally speaking the people trying their hardest to stay off the radar are the ones who don't take too well to any kind of help. Maybe they're proud. Maybe they're scared. Most likely it's a mix of both. Trust me, I know. A part of them will start to grow, to harden and fester, until they hold this lump of resentment towards anyone trying to meddle. And sure, they may _know _that they need some kind of change—but why offer it if they don't want to take it? Why should they bother if it only has the potential to make things worse?

_Why should I bother?_

I kept asking myself that the entire way to the parking garage, bundled up in the jacket this silver haired stranger had slung over me. Even with it I felt cold. I wanted to throw up. My ass and thighs hurt, and my head was throbbing. I wanted to crawl home and shower and wash _that man's_ funky _smell _off of me, because even now I could still feel it lingering on my burning skin. The last thing I wanted was to deal with doctors and nurses and other nameless people I didn't know asking me probing questions about what happened. Or, worse, for some stranger to baby me the entire time just because he happened to see me cry. The last thing I wanted was for anyone else to pry or get dragged into my mess.

But really, I didn't want Xaldin to find out.

_Why bother?_

The stranger led me to his car, a black BMW that desperately needed a new paint job, and pulled open the passenger door for me. He waited with my bag held firmly in his fingers, eyeing me expectantly when I didn't move right away. I was tempted to just leave my things with him and walk home, or what counted as my home at the time. I was half certain of what would follow if I stayed, and really, I didn't have the mental stamina for that.

So, wordlessly, I wiped at my eyes and grabbed for my bag, a pathetic attempt to leave. When he sensed that I was pulling away instead of getting in the car, he tightened his grip on the bag and gave me a questioning stare. "What're you…?"

"I'm going home," was my short reply—and I was pissed at how hoarse my voice sounded, but tried to ignore it.

"You can't just leave."

"Watch me."

Every time I tried to pull my bag away, he just tugged the strap back. He gave it one good yank before narrowing his eyes and saying, "You really shouldn't be by yourself."

"I'd rather you _not _tell me what I should or shouldn't do."

"I'm just trying to help."

And slather me in his pity while doing so. I didn't need that, didn't _want _that. I didn't want to know what thoughts were running through his head. I had no idea where or how far away the hospital was; this area was unfamiliar to me. I just knew that I didn't want to deal with any stretch of time where he could question me.

_I don't see you leaving, either,_ a voice mocked in the back of my mind.

I frowned. The stranger frowned back, looking at me with this weird look. A searching look. He didn't make a move other than rubbing his chin with his free hand—probably recalling the last time he tried touching me—but he did jerk his head towards the passenger's seat. Softly, he said, "Just come on."

It took me a long while before I finally did.

He gave me a loose T-shirt from some box in his trunk, instructing me to hold it over my forehead and lean back in the chair. I didn't have it in me to argue or say much of anything, really, so I just sat there with a listless expression and stared out the window. Still, I couldn't focus on anything we drove past, couldn't even think of anything to distract me from the pain slowly knitting itself through my entire body. I was so distracted, I almost didn't catch the stranger's next comment.

I flicked my gaze at him. "What?"

"We really should call the poli—"

"No cops," I snapped, no longer looking at him. A reply, a mindset, that had become habit over the years. "No cops… No reason."

"_Plenty _of reason. You didn't beat yourself up."

"I was mugged."

The disbelief in his tone was painfully thick. "Mugged."

_This is why… _"You don't have to believe me," I muttered, slipping my eyes shut. God, my head was killing me…

"I'm just thinking, if the guy that…mugged you. If he's still out there, it can't hurt to alert the authorities. Get him taken care of."

"He didn't take anything important anyway."

The underhanded way I said it didn't fool him in the slightest. I didn't have to look at him to see it; I could feel him scrutinizing me for what felt like an eternity, could feel the almost annoyed way he was now steering the car sharply around its corners. He didn't say anything else. Honestly, I didn't want him to.

So we sat in silence the rest of the way there.

When we did arrive it was nothing but noise. Noise, noise, light noise. But still so noticeable in my now hyperaware state. Phones rang in the background, machines were beeping and wheezing and clicking, wheelchairs and gurneys rolled about. Conversations I didn't want to hear flitted through my ears. This was the last place I wanted to be. It wasn't crowded, but there were more people than I cared for roaming the hospital halls that night. A majority of them were nurses in pastel colored scrubs, their sneakers squeaking obnoxiously on the tiled floor. The tiles, too… Too much. They seemed too much like the ones I'd been pressed against not that long ago.

_Don't think about that._

But how could I not?

Everything burned. I couldn't sit still. You'd find me shifting on and off in the chair, hands sandwiched between my thighs and with my knees bouncing up and down in a quiet yet frantic fashion. The stranger sat beside me with his ankles crossed and his cheek held up in one of his palms, silent ever since he'd helped sign me in at the front desk. Probably put off by just how much I didn't want him to know even now.

"_What's your name?"_

"_Roxas."_

"_Roxas what?"_

"_Just Roxas."_

My tone had been sharp. He hadn't pressed for more. No, now he kept throwing glances my way every few minutes as we sat. It was just us in the waiting area, set up between two other rows of chairs with a small TV flashing dimly in front of us. I could tell he wanted me to be still, but he never said anything. Why he was being so considerate never crossed my mind—I was too distracted by the noise, my discomfort. Too worried about being here longer than necessary.

_Why did I come here?_

Every bone in my body said to leave. I couldn't though.

A woman, a small thing in a green scrub and her reddish hair in a loose bun, strolled into the waiting area after twenty something minutes, looking in our direction with a lazy smile. "Roxas?"

I wouldn't say I jumped, but I stiffened up quicker than I thought was possible. Her voice was all softness and marshmallows, but it seemed to cut in so loudly in the midst of all the background noise. She'd even given a slight nod when I caught her eye. The stranger beside me nodded back. They seemed to know each other. I felt the man touch me, just lightly, on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. He hoisted my bag over his shoulder and gestured for me to follow him, giving me a reassuring smile. "Just relax."

Relax. Right.

The room the woman had led us to was small. Walls the same disgusting hospital green with educational posters pinned up here and there. An eye chart. A scale alongside some other device I couldn't think to categorize at the moment, its wires hanging out and a plug lying abandoned on the floor. A metal desk pressed against the wall directly across from the door, complete with a computer and a tray of medical tools and disinfectants and whatever other crap a doctor would need handy.

There was a bed—you know, the uncomfortable ones that always seemed to tilt up at a weird angle, the kind you'd have to hop onto when you were a kid whenever you got your checkups, with the paper cover laid out neatly—on the far right. The woman, or doctor, I supposed, asked me to take a seat on said bed as she set her clipboard down on the desk. I did so, ignoring the awkward crinkling noise the paper made as it scrunched up beneath me. The stranger stayed out of the way, leaning against the wall by the door. I glanced at him only a moment before looking back to the doctor as she started, gingerly, feeling the wounds on my face.

"Quite the bump you've got there," she said with a frown. "We'll need to stitch you up."

"Stitches?" I flinched at the word, gripping the T-shirt now bunched up in my hand and snatching my head away. "How long is that gonna take?"

"Not too long, but there's no need to rush the process. We'll numb you, put you under if that's what you prefer, then—"

"When will I be able to go home?"

A pause. She didn't make it obvious, but I caught the way her eyes flicked up towards the stranger. They exchanged some look. Then, slowly: "I really think you should stay. At least for the night."

"I don't have a concussion or anything."

"We don't know that for sure, which is why I need to run some head scans as well." Again with what I should or shouldn't do. I didn't like it. It must have shown on my face, because she was letting out a sigh halfway through her sentence, letting it mingle with her words. "It's just one night. Unless you needed to talk to someone? Maybe a friend or family member, just to let them know where you are?"

No family. Never family. No friend. No…there was Hayner. I'd call, and he was sure to pick up. Even if he hadn't heard from me in days, weeks, months, he'd pick up and go on like he'd talked to me only yesterday. That's just how it was between us. But I didn't want him in this. Instead I turned my head away and gripped the edge of the bed, glaring at the floor. "No. It's fine."

"Kairi," at last the stranger spoke, cutting into the silence that had followed. I watched as the woman eyed him curiously, as the man gestured her over with a finger. He set my bag down beside him, cracking open the door as he did so. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

The doctor clasped her small hand on my knee as if to say _I'll be right back_, then the two of them stepped outside of the room, not quite closing the door behind them. It wasn't intentionally; the woman had tried to close it behind her, but it had rebounded a bit until it was cracked open. Their whispers trailed in. I couldn't catch what they were saying, though. Somehow it made me feel like a child being discussed by its parents, as if it had no voice, no opinion on what was being said at all. I knew right then I couldn't stay in this room for much longer. It felt like the walls would start pressing in on me at any moment.

_Why are you here?_

My bag was there by the door. It would be so easy to just grab it and slip out. They'd see me, sure, but they couldn't make me stay. Not really.

"What do you mean you can't?"

The man's voice. He had snapped the question, causing me to throw my gaze in the door's direction. I could barely make out the doctor's—this Kairi's—figure, her arms waving frantically through the crack as she shushed her silver haired companion.

"Keep it down! It's late."

"You're telling me you…" Again his voice was sharp, but it drifted into something quieter. I'd be lying if I told you my interest wasn't piqued. It was what got me slowly heading for the spot by the door, sagging against the wall and cocking my sore head in their direction. Having the wall for support made the ache a little more bearable.

My eyes met the backs of their legs. Kairi's legs shifted as she spoke. "It's hear-say, Riku. I can't just go with that unless he says something himse— Don't give me that look, okay? Did he _say _anything?"

"He said he was mugged, but you know I don't buy that."

"Well you don't know anything for sure, do you?"

"I know that _whatever_ it was that did that to him was a lot more than a mugging. Look at him, Kai. He could barely walk when I found him, let alone stand. It's obvious, and I'm not comfortable with the fact that you're just ignoring—"

"I am _not_ ignoring anything." The sweetness, the calm, was cracking now. She was matching his tone, voice even lower than his. "Look, you've gotta understand that I can't just… I can't _force_ him into anything, Riku. I can't make him get a rape kit and I can't make him talk to the police if he doesn't want to. I'm not going to force any medical procedures on him without his consent, and I'm not going to assume the worst when you aren't sure yourself. So unless he comes forward about it himself—"

"You just pretend like nothing's happened." He might as well have spat on her, his tone was so venomous.

And I honestly didn't get it. I didn't understand the animosity in his voice. I didn't get why he was so upset, why he was so damn concerned when we had barely just met. When I hadn't showed any gratitude towards him at all since he'd found me.

What was the point?

The woman sighed again and shifted her feet. I was too tired to look up and actually try to see the expression on her face, (though I doubted I would with her back turned). I strained my ears to hear her next words. "I know why you're upset. _Believe me_, I get it. But there's only so much I can do."

"That man's still out there," was his cool reply. "Probably sleeping like a fucking baby, carefree, and he'll probably do it again. Who's to say his next victim will come forward?"

"So you're gonna make _him?_ Does that seem fair?"

Maybe she wasn't as much of a pain as I'd pegged her for. Maybe she got it. And maybe she was right, because her friend couldn't say anything back in response. She sighed again.

"I know some people, alright? Counselors. They deal with survivors like Roxas all the time. People who come forward, people in the process of doing so, people who don't come forward…people who never will." The stranger made a noise at that, something disappointed, something hurt. "The best I can do is refer him to one. Maybe—and I'm not guaranteeing anything—but maybe one of them can help him take the steps he needs to, legal or otherwise. If he wants to. But I'm not going to make him do anything, and I really don't think you should either."

Still no response from Silver.

"It's good you brought him here, Riku. Really. Now go home. Call your girl, talk out this funk and attitude you've got yourself stuck in. And go to bed knowing you've done your best to help someone who needs it. Okay?"

"Yeah…"

"Alright, bud?"

"Yeah." He didn't sound too pleased, but a level of resignation had settled in at this point. "Just…take care of him."

"Just drag your butt home and let me do my job before he bleeds to death," she said with the slightest of smiles in her voice.

He left after that, exchanging some last minute farewells I didn't care to hear. I had to force myself up, catching myself with a hand pressed against the wall when I nearly fell, before heading back for the table as if I'd never moved. I had no problem with them knowing I'd eavesdropped, but the words, the weight of the situation, hit me too hard. So many thoughts—and yet I didn't want to think.

I was sitting with my head buried between my knees when the doctor came back in. Only when I heard her approach me did I look up at her, fighting the nausea. She held out her hand to me, smiling that lazy smile that I was sure would charm anyone else under different circumstances, and her voice was soft. "Why don't we go get you taken care of?"

It dawned on me then that maybe it didn't have to be that bad. Maybe. She was just doing her job. She was trying to make me more comfortable. Still, I couldn't swallow the lump that had settled in the back of my throat. Even as I slowly took her hand, I couldn't find an inner calm.

Why had I come here?

* * *

><p><strong>Meaning;<strong>

_Age 21_

I didn't say much.

They ran their tests, they did their stitches, and by the time they wheeled me into a room for the night I was drowsy off of drugs and numb all over. I took the hospital gown the red haired doctor gave me without objection, shrugging off my clothes and putting it on without caring that she was still in the room. If she was bothered by my momentary nakedness, she didn't say.

She kept prying for some kind of information, asking me what happened, asking if I was sure there was no one I wanted to contact. Nothing, no one. I stuck with my story about being mugged. She offered me help all the same, her precious crisis counselors' info, hoping and praying I'd take it. I wasn't taking too well to being looked at as a _survivor_, as some victim. I just wanted to rest for the night and then leave. Oh, but she went on about it. I denied and deflected every time.

She was obviously upset by it. And push she did, regardless of how hard I bit back with responses to drop it. In the end she let it go and wished me goodnight. The stranger, Riku, crossed my mind just moments before she disappeared through the door. But I didn't even have the decency to ask her to thank him for me. Nor did I care.

And I was alone. Quiet.

I couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

There was a long moment where I just sat in bed feeling lost, hugging my knees to my chest and staring around the room. I would have slept if I could, but even in my groggy state I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. I settled for grabbing my bag from the corner of the room instead, setting it down on the bed with me. All this time and I hadn't even checked its contents, made sure all my things were there. Everything had been jostled around, messily thrown in by Luxord after… I dug around the bag for a bit for no real reason, until my hand bumped into something hard. I didn't recognize it, pulled it out—

And stopped.

It was the tape cassette from the bathroom. I froze up completely at the sight of it, letting it sit there in the palm of my hand. Small, cold silver metal with squarish buttons. It looked new. Lurxord must have shoved it in my bag by mistake when he'd gathered my things.

I stared at it for what felt like ages before hitting the play button for the second time that night.

That mystery man's voice. That sharp beat, thumping in the background. The lyrics, the mood they exuded. I sat there quietly, listening to that song all over again. Afterwards, though, there was something more. A separate recording that cut into the very last syllable in the song—I hadn't noticed that the first time through. The singer's voice. He was talking.

"_Hallo? Testing, testing, one two. Hola? Aloha? Bonjour? Ni fucking hao, bitches. Can ya'll even hear me out there?"_

There was a _tap, tap_ as the stranger's fingers bumped against the recorder, followed by a light sigh and some shuffling in the background. The audio was suddenly a lot crisper, so much louder in all this quiet surrounding me. Then he spoke, that stranger with his silk voice and a constant smile underlying his tone. He spoke a name:

"_This is another Axel broadcast."_

Axel.

At first I wasn't sure if it was a name—he said it so fast, so sharply—but it registered in my mind after a moment. He was recording himself talk. Why, I wasn't sure. But I listened.

"_I changed today. Like, all this time I've been wondering if I was doing the right thing, you know? I'll look back and think if it's really been worth it. In the end, I'm sure. Our first gig. We did it, man!"_

This was a diary. An audio diary. The idea struck me as…amusing on some level. I couldn't help but think he sounded very much like a child. Not in the literal sense, no, but in the way that… Well, like some lifelong wish had been fulfilled at last. A wish tucked away for being too childish, unattainable. He rambled on with so much enthusiasm, such innocent charm—like he believed the whole world was a perfect, loving place to be in. And in my fucked up state, I wanted to get caught up in that enthusiasm as well. The way he talked, I wanted to believe him.

"_There's no explaining that rush accurately. It's like— Gah, you just gotta be there, on that stage, you know? It's like… You got all them eyes staring at you and those hands flailing in the air and heads rocking. And they dance! Don't get me started on their dancing. It's amazing. A rush, a fucking rush. And just for our shitty music? Psh. But it felt great."_

A band. Maybe the song from before had belong to him and his friends. How many others? And how could he ever think something so expressive, so raw, was shitty. The urge to speak back to him welled up inside me, but I stopped myself and just leaned back on the bed. Why was I suddenly so interested in this spiel? Maybe I was latching onto the first distraction I could. Maybe it was more than that. I didn't know.

"_I think I can keep doing this," _Axel continued. _"Just go for it, huh? North, freakin' north, maybe even to New York. Screw that—Maine. Freakin' Canadia. Yeah, CA-NAY-DEE-YA. Ya heard me. Hell, maybe out to London. Them Brits won't know how to handle all this. We'll be the next Rolling Stones. Just better looking. Ha! Man. Are you getting me? Are you hearing me right now?"_

He had to be high on something. So why was I laughing? Why were this man and his ramblings—really, the more he went on the less sense he made—so interesting?

"_You know, you spend your entire life trying to figure out what the fuck you're supposed to be doing with it in the first place. Half the world don't even gotta clue. Sad, right? We're all just wandering, roaming, groping, poking, bumping, grinding, feeling, hoping—you feel me. We keep on living 'til we figure it out. 'Til we can find some damn meaning, and even then is it enough? Is anything ever enough? But when you find it it's like—"_

He laughed before he could finish the sentence. And I really didn't know why, but the sound was infectious. Musical, almost. I felt tears in my eyes because it didn't make sense for me to laugh right now. He was more pumped up than before with excitement I could barely grasp.

"_I know, right? It's like, BA-DAM! and everything just clicks, ya know? Like, 'This is it, what I've been waiting for.' You don't know when you realized there was something more for you or why you even needed it, but after you find it it's like, ah! AH! Like you're filling in that empty piece of yourself after so long. Like _damn _if anyone thinks you're wasting your life, 'cause it's yours, right? You do what you want, live life how you want, and screw everyone who thinks you're living it wrong. Because they don't know that feeling."_

He made no sense. No sense at all, and yet every word spilling out of his mouth sounded right. I imagined his arms were spread wide as he recorded this, gesturing this way and that with each sentence. How anyone could get so worked up from talking to themselves was beyond me, but an amused smile found its way on my lips. Then the excitement dimmed down and there was a pause.

With the next words—and I had no idea what had brought on the sudden change in topic—his eager voice changed to something softer.

"_I just wanna ask ya'll… If you think you're a good person. And if you are, how would you know?"_

Another pause. It lingers a little longer than the last.

"_Well… It's getting late. Last thing I need is Z busting my balls for yawning nonstop during rehearsal, so. Catch ya'll later."_

I felt alone again.

* * *

><p><strong>The Change;<strong>

_Age 21_

I haven't had a home for almost a decade. Not a real one. It changed so often, usually from month to month, that it was safe to say I was essentially living as a homeless bum for all these years. The place Hayner and I had been crashing at for the past three months, though, was actually the apartment of one of Hayner's friends. A quiet guy, some tech savvy university student, who often kept to himself in his little hole filled with comfortable clutter. How he and Hayner had become acquainted with each other was beyond me, but I didn't question it too much when he offered us a free place to sleep. It really wasn't much. But I wanted to go somewhere familiar, and it was the only place I think I could tolerate the next morning.

I'd gotten up early, tugged on my clothes from the night before (dirty as they were) and gathered the rest of my things. The nurse monitoring the front desk, some blonde broad with a wide face, gave me an unreadable expression when I slapped my hand on the counter and asked for the sign out sheet.

She gave me look over with her teal eyes, scowling. "You really want to leave? You still don't look so hot."

"I don't hear anyone saying I can't, so give me the fucking sign out sheet."

The woman didn't look too pleased with my attitude, but she handed me the clipboard regardless. She probably didn't know that I was supposed to stay; otherwise I'm sure she would have made more of an argument. I'm sure Kairi or whatever doc that was in charge would have some choice words for her after the fact, but I pushed that out of my mind and went on my way.

I caught a cab out towards my temporary home, resting my eyes the entire way there. Try as I might, there was no pushing last night out of my mind. As much as I tried to focus on the song, on that tape, on Axel…it always rounded back to Xaldin. What was he doing now, I wondered? Had he chilled out at all? Had last night…had it just been the drugs or had it been all him? A mixture of both? Did it really matter? And what if he decided to find me, to follow me last night? What if he had seen me at the hospital, with the stranger, had gotten the wrong idea? It was a stupid thought, but still it stuck.

Even at home he could find me. He'd never dropped me off there on a morning after or anything of the sort, but there was still the chance that he could find me easily if he wanted to. If I gave him a reason to. It wasn't that much of a stretch, considering the connections he had. Ears everywhere. Eyes. Those eyes…

_Forget it._

The area was quiet when the taxi pulled into the apartment parking lot. The normal handful of people heading to work were strolling to their cars when I got out, stuck in their own little bubbles as always. Ignoring the coldness of it all, I took my time heading down the sidewalk, towards home… To be honest, I wasn't looking forward to slinking back inside and running the risk of bumping into either of my roommates. I was a mess. I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, so I'm sure I looked even worse than last night.

There was no way they wouldn't suspect anything. Considering the kind of business Hayner and I ran, getting a little rough treatment wasn't completely out of the question. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time, either, but the stitches were a clear sign that something more serious than usual had gone down. I'd be questioned, for sure. They'd probably pester and pester until I explained, and…

I wasn't going back to that night.

I refused to.

So I walked into that building with my mind already made up.

More quiet.

Even though the place came pretty cheap I didn't understand why we weren't charged with part of the rent, not that I was complaining—our roomie was nice like that. It also meant the place was small, simple. One giant box with the essentials. A kitchenette, a folding table with matching chairs tucked in the space beside it. There were the sad excuses for couches and a decent TV system. Games cluttered here and there on the coffee table, along with school papers and snacks. I walked past all of this familiar mess. Then there was the slim L-shaped hallway leading towards the two bedrooms, with a closet space and bathroom resting on the right

A shirtless Hayner had emerged from said bathroom, boxers hanging low on his hips in the usual fashion, the moment I reached the hallway. He was running a towel through his damp hair, peering out at me with those earth colored eyes and sticking out his tongue at me when I came to an awkward halt in front of him. "The hell've you been?"

I couldn't return the amusement. "Where do you think?"

"Fuck, man." He had ignored my response when he got a better look at me, gaping at the bandage beneath my eye, the stitches still sitting fresh on my temple. "What happened to your face?"

Which brought me back to why I hadn't wanted to come back in the first place.

I shrugged it off and pushed past him, heading for the room we shared and tossing my bag on the floor. Tired all over again. "It's nothing. The Big Guy got a little rough is all—"

"You call this a little," he fussed, stopping me in the middle of the doorway. Suddenly his towel was strung around the back of my neck, and he used it to pull me closer to him, to examine my face. It was all I could do not to dig my nails into his freckled arms and shove him away.

I avoided his eye, gently worming out of his grip. "Where's Pence?"

Hayner watched me carefully. "Off with his mistress."

I hadn't really asked because I cared. I just wanted to change the subject. There was a brief moment where I didn't know what to do next—no, didn't want to do anything. But it passed, and I reached under my bed for the suitcase that had become so accustomed to the space beneath. Silently I started packing. Hayner didn't leave. I could feel him watching me from the entrance, could even imagine the way his arms were crossed or how he leaned against the doorframe as I went on to collect and sort my belongings on my bed. He didn't speak right away. "You leaving?"

"Don't sound too disappointed. I figured I needed a change after last night."

"Rox, what happened?"

_Forget it. Just forget it._

"Nothing you need to worry about. Hand me that other bag in the closet, would you?" I stopped when I didn't hear him move, finally glanced at him. He was giving me a scandalized look, like he didn't know what to make of the situation. I would have laughed if I felt up to it. "Don't gawk at me like that, okay. It's not like I'm disappearing into some dark abyss or anything."

"No?"

"No. Xaldin, he…" Even thinking about the man's name made me sick to my stomach, but I didn't let it show. Went on just as calmly as I could. And God, I was lying through my teeth. It was surprising how easy it was. Then again, after all these years, not really. "He's got a friend. That blonde guy, you know. With the British accent. He's got a place, something nicer. A couple gigs he figured he'd like me for. So I'm going with him for a bit, then I'll drift from there."

"Always drifting," the blond said quietly.

Two words that said it all. It brought a pang to my heart. And for old times' sake, I was tempted to extend an invitation his way. All the times I'd hit the road to explore other places, bigger cities, only to float back into the area months later and shack up here—and often, when I asked, Hayner was more than willing to tag along. This time, though, I couldn't bring myself to ask.

I shot him a good natured grin all the same. "You gonna miss me, babe?"

"Not a chance," he said, grinning back. Whatever else was on his mind, whatever else he wanted to say, was left unsaid. I think there was a part of him that could sense the heaviness behind my words. But he didn't know what had driven me to the decision in the first place and never questioned it.

He never needed to know, and never would.

I needed the change.


	4. Steps of a Man

_I'm just floored by the feedback right now, and I really don't know what to say. To everyone, thank you._

* * *

><p><strong>It Passes;<strong>

_Age 21_

_Five minutes._

_Scrub. Rinse. Repeat._

_Water's pouring, just beyond the point of scalding, and my usual paleness is replaced with pimply red. Flushed skin. My whole body's on fire, but I ignore it. I'm surprised my skin hasn't started peeling yet. I probably shouldn't get my stitches wet. Probably. Don't care._

_Going on eight minutes. Soon to be ten. I usually get out at ten, dry off, put on some clothes. It doesn't feel like enough, though. It's not enough._

_It's been two days. Just two days. Why do I still feel his stink on me?_

_Gotta feel clean._

_At some point Pence thumps on the door. He wants in, says he can't hold it much longer. I don't say anything, just let him wait to the point of annoyance. Still, I say nothing as he busts in and takes care of his business. I barely hear him piss. At that point I'm glad the shower curtain stands between us, glad he can't see how hard I'm dragging the rag against my skin._

_Scrub. Rinse. Repeat._

_I'm wasting water. Wonder what Hay and Pence are saying. Wonder if they notice. Or care. Maybe. They won't say it, though._

_Eventually the water loses its heat, shifts to something cooler. Still, my skin's red. Soap suds swirl down the drain. My toes flex against the stretch of white._

_Fifteen minutes._

_Hands are all over me. All over my legs._

_Twenty minutes._

_The floor tile's cold._

_Twenty-five._

_His shit eating grin._

_Thirty minutes._

_I close my eyes and just let the water run down my face. Maybe if enough time passes it'll go away. This feeling will go away. I need to get over myself. What was all the crap about making a change, about moving on? Where was that now?_

_Don't cry, damn it. Don't you dare._

_Scrub._

_Rinse._

_Repeat._

_Shiver._

_I feel clean._

_I keep telling myself that._

* * *

><p><strong>Burning Bridges;<strong>

_Age 21_

I had to give it a few days, about three. Part of me regretted bailing from the hospital so soon, considering my stomach was still sore and my head was giving me grief on and off throughout the day. Pence had been visibly disturbed by my stitches and the busted eye when he saw them for the first time, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Maybe it was the "don't you _dare_ask" expression on my face that kept him quiet, or maybe Hayner had given him some kind of warning to keep his curiosity to himself. Either way, I didn't have to explain a thing.

My injuries were easily ignored when I made myself busy. So, busy I was. I stuck around the apartment for most of that time doing nothing but cleaning, rearranging, eating, reading... Maybe I'd play a game in between, then clean some more. Mostly packing, though. And when I wasn't preoccupied, I was holed up in the bathroom.

I couldn't begin to tell you why I chose the bathroom, of all places, just that the urge to curl up in the empty tub and stare at the ceiling all night was strong. I'd bring the cassette player in with me and listen to Axel's song on repeat until my mind grew numb and I dozed off. It was the only way I got any sleep. That song was the only part of that night I let myself go back to. The only bit of comfort.

I did have to leave at some point.

I guess part of the reason I had stayed was because I honestly had no idea where to go. Usually that wasn't a problem for me. Even if I wasn't sure I would still set out somewhere and wing it from there. Some willing stranger would give me the time of day, let me charm my way into their home for the night. Then I'd give them what they wanted, clean myself up when the time came, let myself out with some breakfast on the go, and be ready to do it all over again. Bumming a ride wasn't hard either. And if I did have to tough it out on my own, then at least I had the money to take care of myself.

I keep telling myself that.

I left early Tuesday morning, six something when it was still dark out and long before Hayner or Pence would wake up, with a small suitcase in tow and a backpack slung over my shoulder. I didn't need much-didn't _have_ much. You learned to downsize when you're bouncing around over the years. The only semblance of a goodbye was the short note I tacked to the fridge before heading out.

**Knowing this is the first place either of you dillholes will look, there's no way you'd miss this. I'm moving out again, so I'll catch you two sometime. Don't miss me too much.**

**R.**

Short, sweet, simple. Same as always.

They didn't have to know I wasn't planning on coming back.

* * *

><p><strong>Baby Steps;<strong>

_Age 21_

They had some decent hotels in the area. Not one of those two-bit, raunch as fuck hotels that didn't have any kind of standard of hygiene let alone the privacy I wanted. Nothing five-star either. I picked a simple place near a shopping strip where the rooms ran eighty bucks a night and had the promise of free breakfast for however long I stayed. I was willing to blow the cash for three nights, but I booked a room for one to start. All I really needed was a place to stow my crap, at least until I figured out where I wanted to go.

Frustration set in when I got up to the room. So many washed out oranges and browns thrown on the walls, mixed together in what was supposed to be a pleasant fashion. The place was cramped, meant for just one person, maybe two if you were ambitious. A wooden desk was set up on the right, with a small television and lamp resting on top. Across from this a bed with some granny's comforter spread on it, complete with stiff pillows and equally stiff sheets tucked underneath. The curtains were the same nasty shade of peach, drawn open this time of day. A fridge. A closet to my left. A nightstand for your loose change. Probably a Bible in the top drawer, too. It was a room I'd have to deal with for the time being.

You know, your average hotel room. Same as all the others. Flat. Boring. Convenient. Open to you for only so long, always ready to welcome the next paying customer. Sure, there was worse. But I still wasn't too pleased. The surroundings just added another layer to my foul mood. I was out on my own after what felt like forever, but it didn't really feel like I'd taken as big a step as I'd wanted. I knew I needed to leave but still had no idea where or how. What, all of a sudden, was so hard about figuring out what to do with myself?

_Because you don't really know what you want, do you?_

Part of it was there, sitting somewhere inside of me. That urge for something different. That drive to move. The other part of me was clueless and angry about it. I'd figure _something_out; I always did. The question was what to do in the meantime.

I figured I might as well get some food in my system. After all, I hadn't gotten a chance to eat anything on my way out. There wasn't anything in the room, of course, but they had plenty of menus and a list of food places to choose from. I fiddled with the cassette player as I approached the desk, absently clicking it open and closed, but I found nothing of interest while scanning the menus—most of the places weren't serving lunch this early anyway—and turned my attention to the player instead. Maybe out of laziness, maybe just to kill time. Not sure. But I ended up popping out the tape and examining it for the first time.

It dawned on me, as I set the player down and held that tape with both hands, that I had never actually thought to take it out until now. It wasn't in the best of shape. It had some nicks and scratches in a few places, and the plastic that was surely a crisp white however long ago had browned just a bit over time. How old was it? Not _that_old, right?

My fingers ran along something rough on the back, and I flipped it over to see that someone had put some scotch tape there. Two strips with messy green Sharpie scrawl. The first strip... Was that a poem?

_**Buried my heart**_

_**Where shadows beat the wall**_

_**Night rats sing**_

_**And lost men fall**_

_**Find the pieces**_

Underneath that, on the second strip, an address. That was it.

I don't know why I stood there like I was waiting for something. I found I couldn't move, could only stare at those words as if they had been spoken aloud, whispered in my ear with the playfulness they seemed to carry. I read everything again and immediately thought of Axel. I imagined him scribbling that note, maybe even reading them as he wrote, and tucking the tape away for someone else to discover. But where? Why? What pieces?

A riddle, that's what it was. Honestly, I had no idea what it was supposed to mean or why those words interested me so much. Strange.

"Pieces, huh?" I had muttered the question to the air rather than myself, eyeing the address.

I think I'd found my first step.

* * *

><p><strong>Invitation;<strong>

_Age 21_

I hate coincidence. Maybe hate isn't the right word, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth all the same. I just can't stand to think that, sometimes, things happen solely because you were at the right place at the right time. Or, depending on how you wanted to look at it, the wrong place at the wrong time. You see a certain something that sets you off, or you bump into someone that you just didn't want to deal with. It's unexpected and throws you off, and right about then I wasn't too fond of being thrown off my game again.

I bumped into him while stopping by the nearest WaWa. I wanted to keep my trip short and either catch a bus or call a cab afterwards, just get to my next location. All I needed was something small to hold me over until lunch, so I grabbed a couple Honey Buns and a bottle of water. It would have been very simple.

"Roxas?"

Shit.

I readjusted my hood, turning my head away before the owner of that voice could come into my line of vision. Not that I needed to see. I recognized who it was right away, even though we had met only once. He was the last person I wanted to see. Instead, I picked up a couple packets of gum and tossed them on the counter as well, drumming my fingers impatiently when the cashier kept taking his sweet time. "Those too. Hurry it up."

"I know you heard me," Riku said, suddenly beside me.

I ignored him, staring down the cashier wordlessly while the man slowly rung up my stuff and stared right back. "Six twenty-seven."

"I'm not going away," Riku stated calmly, whipping out a ten before I could even work my wallet out. The cashier took it without blinking, handing back the change before I could protest. He bagged my snacks with the same look of disinterest, and I snatched it while turning my glare on Riku. "What are you, my baby sitter? I don't need you to— _Stop__it._"

"Kairi was freaking out," he went on, tucking his change in his pocket and taking hold of my bag. He worked out another twenty with his free hand and dropped it on the counter, mumbling something about pump five to the apathetic cashier.

"Give me my stuff," I snapped.

"She thought you ran off and hurt yourself or something." He was intent on pissing me off, rolling out the door with my bag as if it were his.

I followed him out to his beat down car, chewing down my anger. "Nope. Still sewed up in one piece. So, thanks for that. Bye. Seriously."

"Seriously, bye?"

"Seriously…" I watched him start to fill up, simmering down as the memories of that night came flooding back. My expression softened a bit. "Thanks… I guess. But you're starting to annoy me, so give me my stuff. I haven't eaten a damn thing today."

"I bought it," he said, and I swear his smile was almost smug. He handed it back anyway, watching me carefully. "Road trip?"

"Sorta."

I had no idea what he saw in my face, but he let out a long breath. "You have no idea where you're going, do you?"

What was it with this guy? Who did he think he was? And why, _why_, was I still standing here when my destination was now clear? But…was it? I thought back on the address on the tape, that tape settled in the pocket of my hoodie. It felt heavy all of a sudden. I didn't even know how far it would take me or what I would find there. Who knew if I'd find anything? And if I didn't, then where was I going to go? I didn't know. Maybe Riku could sense that.

And that pissed me off.

He had long since finished filling up his car, but he didn't leave. When he didn't say anything else, when I couldn't think of anything else, I just let the annoyance bubble back up and asked, "Why the hell do you care so much anyway?"

"Because, maybe, you don't seem to care enough."

_You__don't__know__me._The words were right there. They stumbled. Tripped. Face planted. Fizzled. I couldn't get them out. _Just__walk__away,__Roxas._

Why not?

I turned, then, ready to leave without giving him a response. He gave a sudden call. I'd like to think it was a desperate plea, if only it came out that way. There was something in his tone, though. "If you need a place to say, I've got one."

He shot back a look when I just turned and stared him down. "What?"

"A place to stay. I've got more room than I know what to do with right now, and I've got no problem letting you crash for a bit. If you pull your own weight," he added when I continued to eye him suspiciously. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but my door is open."

All this time I'd been set on getting out of the area. All I wanted was to cut out anything from that night completely. Yet, again, here this man was offering a helping hand to a stranger and dragging me back. He was either crazy or just plain stubborn.

_Again, I don't see you walking away._

Maybe this was a spark of something else.

I hate coincidence, but this one felt damn well like a shove in the right direction. I couldn't find the words for what I was feeling at that moment—and later I would realize that's just something that happened when I was with Riku—so I shot back the only thing that would get him off my case. "Aren't you a fucking saint?"

He didn't even seem fazed. No, he had popped open the backseat door to his car and dug around in a backpack crammed on the floor. Only then did I realize that he had several boxes and bags packed in the back seat, as if he was heading out on a road trip himself. Or moving in somewhere.

He took out some old pen and a semi-crumpled index card from one of the pockets, scribbling something down. Whatever it was seemed important enough, the way those long fingers were moving. Before I could say something else, he held the card out to me. I didn't take it right away, just glanced at it. His address and phone number.

"Just take it," he said when I still didn't move, shoving the damn thing in my palm and ignoring my noise of protest. He opened the driver's door and got in, rolling down his window as the car started up. "And go see a doctor about your stitches. They need to come out soon."

My fingers brushed against said stitches almost involuntarily in response. I scowled at him, but he only smiled. Then he drove off and I was trudging down the sidewalk with that scowl still plastered on my face. The card felt sharp in my hand. I eyed it as I walked.

Offering his home to a stranger, buying me food, smiling like we were the best of fucking friends… I didn't get this guy. I didn't get him at all. And, worse, I couldn't figure out if I liked him or not. It made more sense for me to throw away his info. It wasn't like we'd ever meet again. I didn't need it.

With a huff, however, I tucked the card in my pocket anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Missing Pieces;<strong>

_Age 21_

The mystery address led to some tired old street corner out of town where a winery and a record shop met and a rusted pole kept watch over the two from the edge of the sidewalk. There was graffiti on the pole, sharp green letters blown up and twisted around the metal in a defiant curve. I half expected to see Axel's riddle recreated on that pole, maybe for dramatic effect, but it was nothing more than the word _BREE2Y_ (if the two counted…) and some street rat's tag underneath.

I pulled out the tape and examined the address once more, looking up at the nearby buildings and back to compare. Had to be the record store. Even if the numbers on the glass door were faded, they matched what was written. But it didn't quite make sense to me. It all seemed too easy, way too easy. Just coming here couldn't have been it.

_Where shadows beat walls…lost men fall… Find the pieces._

Pieces, pieces. What pieces? Who was Axel talking to when he wrote that? How was I even sure it was him who'd left the message in the first place? It could have been anyone's messy scrawl, someone throwing down random riddles for the hell of it. Meaningless. Why was I even out here when I had no idea what to look for?

That question cycled its way through my head, getting louder with each step I took towards the building. I tucked the tape back into my hoodie pocket, plopped it in front of the index card, before opening the door.

A breeze rolled through, disappearing just moments after, and a bell chimed above my head when the door finally slipped back shut. The place wasn't as small as I'd expected, but still nothing to write home about. A concrete box with navy walls, CD and DVD bins gathered in the center like good little soldiers, crammed to the brim with merchandise threatening to spill onto the carpeted floor. Chest high shelves stacked with even more CDs and old fashioned records—good ol' vinyl, sleeve covers and all—rested along each wall except for one. The checkout counter took up much of that leftover space, curving just slightly towards a back door that I assumed led to some supply area.

A man poked his head out from said area the moment I set my bag of snacks down on the counter. His golden eye flicked this way and that before resting on me, and as he sized me up I couldn't help but think he may have been some form of pirate in a past life. I didn't even have the decency to pretend to feel bad while blatantly checking out his eye patch and the jagged scar along his cheek. Maybe he was used to it, because he shot me an almost proud smirk and stepped out to the register.

"Hey, lil' man," he said with that same grin, tying back grayed hair into a ponytail. "What can I do you for?"

Any other time, any other place, I probably would've turned that question around into something flirtatious. Maybe even ask what he'd like me to do for him. Maybe just comment on his attractiveness—because he _was_ exactly the kind of man I made a habit of chasing after. But.

I was tired.

Instead I pulled out Axel's tape and leaned onto the counter. "Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me something about this?"

He wasted no time in plucking it from my fingers. I let him. The man turned it over and over again in his hands as he examined it. "Mix tape, huh? Kinda old fashioned."

"No, I mean what's on the tape. The singer. Do you know anything about an Axel?"

"Axel?" He spoke the name as if it were in some foreign language. (For all he knew, it could have been.) He leaned on the counter himself and flipped the tape back over to read the green scribble. I only waited, watched him mouth the words to himself, wondering again why I was still here bothering with any of this.

"Axel." He scratched at his chin, pulling away from me. "Why does that name sound familiar? He a friend of yours?"

"N…not really."

"Chill real quick." And he disappeared back into that supply room. Things were shuffled around in his wake, a small mutter of "Crap" was given, but other than that I had no idea what he was doing. The riddle came back to mind as I waited.

Find the pieces. Surely they had something to do with music. Why else give this address? This had to have meant something to him, that mystery man. It was a matter of figuring out what I was looking for. Pieces. How many were there?

_"And I didn't know. The world's graces only stretch so far. No, we didn't know…"_

Axel's voice flitted through my ears, singing the words I'd grown so familiar with in such a short amount of time. Old Scar Face came back out with his own worn down cassette player in hand, waving it in the air and nodding his head in time with the beat. A different kind of grin was on his lips now. "Yeah, yeah, sure. I remember this guy. Axel something, think it started with a Z."

Something at last. "You knew him?"

"Sure, while back. Him and his group played down at my old place b'fore I closed it up and hauled ass to this dump." He let the music continue on, sauntering his way back behind the counter and setting the player down. His fingers played with the buttons. "I had a pretty sweet club going back then, dig? Took three years to actually get up and running."

"And his group," I pressed, not really caring about his life story or personal pursuits. "They performed there?"

"Time to time, yeah. Rowdy bunch of fuckers."

"Do they have more tapes?"

A shrug here. "Hell if I know."

Well some help he was. The disappointment must have been clear on my face, because he let out a barking laugh and held up his hands in some kind of surrender. "Don't get all bent out of shape about it, jeez. I know they made their own album. Something short, just to pass around, get their name out there. Think I had a copy but you know how it goes."

"Could you check?"

He was digging back around in that supply room again, shuffling through whatever belongings he had tucked away and forgotten about. He came back out empty handed, holding out his palms like some child who'd gotten caught touching something he wasn't supposed to. "Sorry, bud."

"Nothing?"

"Nada. Look, far as I know they split. Haven't seen or heard from them in…year, give or take." I shot him a look that had him making signs of surrender yet again, laughing this time. "Look, I wasn't out to be their best friend or anything. They brought in good customers and they could work up a crowd. All that mattered to me. You looking to find out more, you're better off tracking down their manager."

"Manager?"

"So he called himself. Lusor…Lucid, Lusha, something."

A sudden chill ran down my spine. "Luxord?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Fuck.

_Why the hell are you bothering?_

The man was watching my face carefully. "What, you know the guy?"

"No," I said a little too sharply, snapping the tape out of his cassette player and plopping it in my bag. Snatching that bag off the counter, I turned to leave, suddenly sick.

"At least buy something, damn."

"Maybe another time."

"Alright, lil' man." He shot me a two finger salute as the bell chimed over my head. "Don't be a stranger."

The door shut. And that was that, I supposed. But no, there had to be more to it than that. There had to be more.

_Don't bother._

But why this address?

_Why do you care?_

I blew out a harsh breath the moment I was back on the sidewalk, staring around me with those damned words circling through my head.

_Shadows beating walls… Someplace dark. Lost men falling. And singing rats. What the hell does that even mean?_

Shadows, shadows… And he gave this address. Did it mean at night? Was there something special about this place at night? Was it rat infested?

_You're thinking too literal._

I was tempted to walk back to the bus stop I'd gotten off at, but I stopped when a space across the street caught my eye. Or rather, my eye fell on it and didn't quite leave. An alley. Some small crevice in the shops across the way, dumpster and all. I used to give head behind one well into junior and senior year, right outside the school. Don't know why that came back to me then, but it made another thought run through my mind.

Lost men fall.

Rats sing.

An alley.

_There's no way._

_He gave this address. This shop. Not an alley._

But there's always something more.

For the hell of it I walked over to that alley. More graffiti on the walls facing me, neon colored spray paint bought by people determined to leave their mark. It made sense. If he were to leave something… It would be here. Whatever it was supposed to be. I refused to believe he led me out here for nothing.

_As if you know him._

Several gaps were in the wall across from me, several bricks picked apart and pulled out. One hollowed spot stood out to me. Someone had taken a large rock, not quite rectangular, and tried to shove it in as best they could. It still stuck out. I knelt down, yanked it out. There, wedged deep inside the brick was another cassette tape worn for wear. I stared at it only a moment before reaching in and grabbing onto it. It moved easily through the dirt and grime, and I blew it off repeatedly when I finally did get it out. Just like the other tape, there was a message and address written on the back in that same messy scribble.

_**Too awake to sleep at night**_

_**Too tired throughout the day**_

_**So I wrote instead**_

_**Find the pieces**_

The words were just a little faded, making me wonder how long they had been hidden.

There were more tapes out there.

These tapes were his pieces.

It was beyond strange. Part of me was drawn to this, daring to fit together the marks this Axel had left behind. Another part of me thought this would be a colossal waste of time and energy, both of which could be better spent… Doing what? Going where? Like I had a plan outside of this. Really, I didn't, and the more I thought about that it burned. Again, here I was latching onto the first distraction that came my way. Figuring out what to do with myself should've been my main priority, not going on wild goose chases for some stranger's "heart." It made more sense for me to stay out of it. Get my shit together. But.

I wanted to find those pieces.

* * *

><p><strong>Please note, from this point on I'll be continuing this story at archiveofourown . org (slash) users (slash) KawaiiKisu<strong>

**Check my profile for more info.**


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